


freshly dissolved in some frozen devotion

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, band au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24404332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: “I guess money does buy you everything, huh,” she stares at the papers in his hand, at his band who sit across the room and never with him.“I guess sympathy works just as well,” he snipes back, but he smiles brightly as the smirk drops from her face and morphs into something darker.band au
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70





	1. she's the angel of small death and the codeine scene

**Author's Note:**

> this is from a drabble on tumblr, so thank you anon!!

When Harry started out with the band, he’d fought being signed onto a major record label at every turn. Had offered to fund their first album. But the band had been persuasive – Grizz had pulled him to one side and said “we need this, the publicity. It’s not just about the money. We need the exposure,” and Harry had decided then and there that he hated the word exposure and publicity and everything that came with it.

When he joined The Fugitives he’d been aiming for a fusion between The Kinks, The Arctic Monkeys and The Killers, before they all crawled too far up their own asses. Somehow he’s landed a fan base more akin to One Direction and fielding thirst Tweets like it’s going out of business. The rest of the band have handed over their social media to their publicist, but he is not going to deny that he’s vain and bored and likes reading about the various different things girls would like to do to him.

(Some of them definitely needed help but. Not his issue.)

Their band manager is Kelly Aldrich and Harry’s regretting churlishly agreeing to this record deal on the provision that his then-girlfriend could continue to be their manager. Under their new found fame, Kelly had grown tired of him smirking at some girl in the audience, or drinking in his hotel room every night. He doesn’t even blame her – he’s pretty tired of himself most of the time, too.

(If he’s being honest with himself, their problems started way before he signed the record deal. The whole getting her rightful employment thing could accurately be described as a hasty band aid over the fractures in their relationship.)

The band was established way before Harry joined. The weird emo-foster kid Will had been lead vocals, then he’d left to go join his girlfriend Allie Pressman in her sister’s band, and Harry had been drafted in for one gig and never left.

He doesn’t think the band particularly like him, which isn’t ideal. He’s the most recognisable band member – everyone remembers the lead singer. He has to do the majority of interviews and studio time and engagement on the stage. Grizz provides a lot of the material but Harry does contribute and the pair work well together, but Luke and Jason and Clark slide him disinterested looks. Roll their eyes and complain in loud voices that they want him to hear.

The four always go for drinks after every gig and Harry thinks he probably could go, if he wanted, but he doesn’t.

(Some journalists muse about a rift, describe him as aloof or arrogant).

They’ve met – of course he’s met Allie Pressman. They’re the same age and both in bands trying to make it big. Allie had been back up vocals and electric violin in her sister Cassandra’s band for years and they had broken it into the big time, six months before The Fugitives signed. Harry had gone to see them and they were pretty good in a preppy, wholesome Swift-era way. Perhaps controversially he preferred Allie’s vocals – her voice was lower, huskier, and her hands flew up and down the neck of her violin with an intensity that made him want to pick up one himself.

They’d been on the bill two bands before The Fugitives at some festival in Idaho, so they’d watched from the sides. It gave him a clearer view of Allie – he could hear both the amplified violin and the pure strings. Could hear her low voice around the chorus, something which complimented Cassie’s clear coached-to-fuck soprano. They’d come off stage and Cassandra stopped in front of them.

“I hear you have an after party,” Cassandra’s eyebrows are raised in challenge, at Harry, at Jason and Clark.

Harry grins widely and revels in the silence that follows, refusing to be cowed. Truthfully, he wants her to push him, to snap that he’s an asshole, give him something to fight against.

Instead Grizz says, “you were really good,” and Cassie says, “thanks!” brightly and looks like she’s going to walk away and take her sister with her.

Allie’s standing behind her sister, plucking at a string on her violin, looking disinterested. Harry says, “you were a little pitchy, on the second chorus of the first,” and Cassandra flushes bright red and glares and Allie finally looks at him, not past him, her gaze unrelenting.

Allie also hates him because he’d never called after that night – when she’d snuck into the afterparty and he’d caught her swigging from a bottle of wine.

He’d said, “I was calling you pitchy, by the way,” and she’d laughed, her eyes sparking and said, “I know. You’re hardly subtle. Besides, Cass has never missed a note in her life.”

He’d been drunk and sometimes that makes him honest. “But she hardly stretches herself does she? She’s good – of course – but she’s so safe. She’ll always sound like the recording.”

Allie tasted of cheap wine when they kissed, had pulled him into his own hotel room. It was quick and frantic and wholly unfulfilling. Afterwards she’d fixed her lipstick in the mirror, looked over her shoulder. “You’re not like they say you are.” He’d watched her hips as she sashayed off. He found her number scrawled on a piece of paper in his pocket the next day, just before he’s due on stage. Then his jeans had been taken by housekeeping and the paper is intact but the ink washed away.

He goes to message her on Facebook, but she’s unfriended him and he just… doesn’t. Doesn’t send her a friend request. Doesn’t message. Even avoids watching her Instagram stories, unless he’s really hammered.

He doesn’t hear anything from them for three months apart from Allie suffering from a broken foot following a performance, and then Cassandra had literally broken, her heart stopping backstage of the 9:30 Club in Washington.

Her sister dies and Allie disappears for six months before turning up in his record label’s waiting room and signing a likely extremely similar contract to the one he is.

“I guess money does buy you everything, huh,” she stares at the papers in his hand, at his band who sit across the room and never with him.

“I guess sympathy works just as well,” he snipes back, but he smiles brightly as the smirk drops from her face and morphs into something darker.

She’s rebranded as Casscade and has an all-female line up that journalists love to pick up on. As soon as they were signed on, Kelly was drafted to manage them as well, though apparently they’re better behaved than The Fugitives and can be managed from a distance via video link and a few perfectly timed phone calls.

Harry knows the band is looking at him when their publicist says that.

It’s bullshit because he’s hardly out of control. Sure, he swears too much and he has an over reliance on Xanax and whiskey to help him sleep at night. But he turns up to all the interviews and he writes decent songs with Grizz. Maybe he dabbles in the world of drugs, but so does Jason and no one looks at him with unconcealed annoyance.

The biggest difference is her band are a collective a unit. Allie can seemingly play anything with strings and has conceded her violin now she’s lead vocals. Swaps it for guitar, mostly for something to do with her hands. Bean is on keys, a quiet blonde called Elle on drums, and Becca on bass and back up vocals. Other members fade in and out, with violins and cello’s and whatever else Allie Pressman wishes.

Harry’s publicist tells them Casscade is opening for them on tour and he laughs loudly and tells them _no fucking way_.

“Allie hates me,” he informs her. They go to the same parties thrown by their label – the same album launches. Use the same studios. Whenever he sees her he can’t help but meddle. Offering constructive criticism in the studio, smirking at her across the room. Anything to challenge the carefully curated smile, anything to sneak under her skin and make her react.

(Casscade’s latest album is called _In Another World_ and he has to pull over to listen to it. The longing, the regret – the lyrics hit a bit too close to home. And the inscription of _to my sister. always._ It makes him ring his mom, who’s surprised to hear from him.)

( _Darling, Dearest, Dead_ with lyrics like _When I thought I wanted to see you broken hearted//I did not mean for you to be dead and departed_ ).

“You’ll help each other’s image,” their publicist is a take no prisoner’s type, something Harry usually admires. Today he wants to tell her to fuck off and die, but he only means half of it.

“She’ll never agree,” he says anyway, because there’s no use in getting his hopes up that Allie Pressman will come on a world tour with him, will sing before him every night, blonde hair bright under the lights.

“They’ve already signed.”

They meet at an album launch party that evening and Harry can’t help but think that it’s mostly likely been architected this way. Allie is surrounded by her band, her hair long and tangled down her back. She’s wearing a backless black jumpsuit and white converse, could easily be mistaken for anyone.

She watches him approach her as though she’s been waiting all evening for this moment. There’s a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Your lyrics are depressing as fuck,” he tells her.

“You’re depressing as fuck.”

“Depressed,” he corrects, but he’s grinning for some reason, and she’s grinning back. It’s wide and feral and makes him want to press her against the wall, pull aside her hair and drag his mouth over her spine.

She doesn’t wear lipstick anymore. It doesn’t even look as if she’s brushed her hair recently, but that might be purposefully styled. It’s wild and a little dangerous and Harry is unsurprised that he likes it, because he accepted he liked her a while ago, (probably when he cried over Cassandra Pressman’s obituary in NME, and not because Cassandra was dead).

He does surprise himself when he says, “maybe we should do a collab, on the tour.”

And it surprises him that she looks at him, head tilted in consideration, and says, “perhaps we should.”


	2. there's something so tragic about you, something so magic about you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for @smc_27 who gave me this prompt MONTHS ago and inspired the second part of this
> 
> the prompt was _I think we got used to love that put us second / We both know way too much about each other's exes / It really shoulda been us all along_
> 
> this is still not finished i don't think and harry's voice is kind of sad but i'm also enjoying this universe quite a lot!

*

There are some things that Harry was not prepared for.

He wants to ask Allie how she does it. He pulls his hood up in a feeble disguise and stands backstage and watches Casscade during their first night on stage. It’s the small moments that intrigue him the most – Allie standing amongst her band, looking around at them all and saying something just for them. It’s the way they jostle each other as they walk on stage – Elle’s hand on Allie’s shoulder; Bean’s fingers looped around her wrist; Becca leading the way, fingers interlocked with Allie’s; head held high, chin tipped towards the lights.

They launch into their set list without apology or preamble and if Harry had any doubts about how they’d be received by his slightly rabid fanbase, they’re washed away as the audience hollers at the sight of them.

His dressing room is empty when he retreats to it, just before Casscade’s last song. He has to breathe deeply into a paper bag he carries around in his tour bag specifically for this moment. Unscrews the top of a pill cannister and tastes the bitter powdery coating of it before he can chase it down with a sip of top shelf whiskey. Kelly provides him with a bowl of ice cubes and a hydro flask with two tumbler’s worth of whiskey in it (she’s learnt by now not to provide the whole bottle – Harry’s sure she’s also learnt to check his bag when he’s not looking). The ice cubes melt and he likes to crunch on them obnoxiously when it’s ten minutes before he’s due on stage and Kelly’s in the room, hands fluttering, and someone’s dabbing powder into his nose and cheekbones.

The second day is just as empty and unfulfilling. Harry is used to the never-ending all-consuming loneliness – he is self-aware enough to realise that it is just enhanced by life on the road; not created by it. He wakes up with a whiskey and perhaps pill induced headache. Kelly makes him sip honey and lemon tea because she worries for his voice. She’s the only one who speaks to him all day until soundcheck, apart from Grizz who nods and says “alright,” as they pass each other in the corridor backstage.

There’s a review by Lexie Pemberton released on the third day of their tour and it makes reference to how _Allie Pressman is trying to fill a void left by her sister Cassandra, and is only approximately sixty percent successful in doing so_. Kelly has it printed out and slams it into his duvet covered chest whilst he’s curled in his bunk of the tour bus – Grizz appears behind her, phone outstretched, concern on his face.

“Shit,” Harry laughs a little as he reads the words and Kelly huffs at the sound, scowling.

“This is serious, Harry,” she reprimands him quietly.

Harry sits up, rubs a hand over his jaw. He tries not to stay in the tour bus if it can be helped – ignores the way the band all bunk together and Grizz cooks for them all and makes them tea in the morning. Empty hotel rooms and well stocked mini bars are far more preferable to the disdain that radiates off Jason, Luke and Clark.

“She’s gonna be on fire tonight,” he determines eventually, and he lies back down and pulls the blankets up over his head and ignores everything anyone says for a solid three hours.

Allie ends up in his dressing room that night, despite them having separate and defined rooms.

He asks about it because he’s a nosy fuck. Everyone else has been dancing around her all day – he’s seen that Will kid’s arm curved around her shoulder, seen Becca glaring at anyone who approaches. “Don’t you want to be with your band?” he’s trying to decide between one navy blue t-shirt and a slightly lighter one. This whole band aesthetic is against most of his principles, but he has to concede some points for the greater good. “Don’t you have a male human sacrifice to make and entrails to decipher?”

Allie flicks a hand towards him. She never sits properly in a chair – she sprawls, legs wide, or her limbs spill over the side, arms reaching towards the ceiling. “I’m avoiding all of Cassie’s pre-show rituals,” her tone is casual, belying the weight of the confession. “Also, I’m kind of hoping my warmup is going to piss you the fuck off.”

She’s half right – the latter stages of her warmup are annoying as fuck. It’s a lot of humming and yawning exaggeratedly and running through bars and octaves. But the first stages – when Allie Pressman is lay down on his dressing room floor, her diaphragm heaving with grounding breaths – he doesn’t mind that so much. Doesn’t mind when she stands up straight, feet spaced, eyes closed and neck rolling. How her eyes snap open and she catches his gaze in the mirror and grins a feral smile that Harry recognises by now.

She also sucks steam in through the spout of an old ceramic teapot which is the most extra thing he’s ever seen. She doesn’t even know what it does – she shrugs when he asks, flicks at the handle. “Cass used to do it.”

“You don’t have to do everything just because she used to do it.” They’re out his mouth before he can stop them, and her head snaps up to look at him. Her make-up artist is in the room but it still feels like it’s just the two of them.

“Whatever,” she dismisses him with a scoff, and then her and her ceramic teapot leave the room with a swish of blonde hair and blue-eyed dismissal.

Harry doesn’t really think many fans read the reviews written. The reception Casscade get as they walk on stage is the same as last nights. Allie stalks towards the microphone with a guitar across her body, her eyes dark and shoulders tight.

She extracts a violin from somewhere in the gap between _Overachiever_ and _Darling, Dearest, Dead_ and does some acoustic rendition with just her on violin and Becca diligent on bass. It wasn’t on the set list or in the sound check but the band sit back and watch and although the crowd goes restless at this stripped back version, Harry can’t get the image of Allie Pressman’s hands gripping bow and violin, her body bending with the notes, out of his head for hours. How she has to hold the bow and the microphone – how the action should be awkward. How the breathlessness from her playing leaking into her vocals should be unpolished and tainted, but just makes it all the richer and rawer.

He waits for them to come off stage and her lipstick is smudged; coats her front tooth. Her skin glistens with sweat from the stage lights and she has to pass her guitar to a backstage worker – she smiles at them almost sweetly; interlocks her fingers with Becca and is pulled off to the side.

“You need to learn to co-ordinate the violin and the singing,” he informs her, tugging down his hood because she hasn’t even given him a second look. Kelly’s at his shoulder, telling him he’s needed in make-up, saying something about warmups. But Allie looks at him, tilts her head.

“Fuck Lexie Pemberton,” she near snarls.

“Oh, I already did. It didn’t get me anywhere. She still slated my album.”

Something loosens in his chest when she laughs – a bright cackle, her nails digging into Becca’s palm. Then Will’s there, taking Allie’s other arm, escorting her to fuck knows where, and Harry concedes to Kelly’s hand on his elbow and goes back to his dressing room.

Kelly supposedly manages both bands and has joined them for the entirety of the tour. She spends most of her time on Casscade’s tour bus, which should sting, but instead Harry just watches as Cassie and Kelly become entangled – shoulders bumping, elbows brushing, a quirk of Allie’s eyebrow after each sound check, waiting for Kelly’s approval. How Kelly steps over Allie lying on his dressing room floor, breathing deeply, without a second glance.

Allie is everywhere and nowhere, all at once. She’s sitting with the rest of his band, her legs thrown across Grizz’s knee, debating with Clark about the merits of Bud Light versus craft beer (Allie brings up the accessibility of Bud Light and Clark almost pulls his hair out in frustration). She’s standing in the empty circle, squinting up at the stage as he sound checks by running through The Fugitive’s loudest and most frantic song (it’s called _Mayor_ and Harry wrote most of it, including the lines _I never wanted to be mayor of this ghost town//I’m more suited to being the class clown_ and _Incomplete and numb//Somehow I'm the civic one)_.

He sings the chorus of _Atlas_ ( _You don't wanna be happy like me//Live my life trying to be someone more, you don’t wanna see_ ) and there’s the usual tug in his chest – a flash of Grizz’s face when he read the line and looked up at Harry in consideration, paper still in his hand.

Harry had shrugged, tossed his hands behind his head. “Teenagers love self-deprecation.”

Allie Pressman greets every support band who are billed before Casscade. Kelly has some sort of programme where she chooses a local band to open for half an hour to get the audience sufficiently warmed up. They always play crowd pleasing covers and Harry rarely watches them – he can usually hear the dull thudding of bass and drums from whichever cramped dressing room he’s located in that evening.

Allie mostly watches half their set and then slams into his dressing room. Starts up her warmups without looking at him. Her make-up artist now comes in without even knocking.

Harry complains every time the door opens, but he doesn’t particularly mind. It’s nice to have some company, some presence. It’s when he’s alone that he can’t breathe. Kelly joins them more often than not – runs through their schedule, offers titbits about the crowd and city.

Will joins them too; sits behind Kelly and nods. Nudges Allie with a toe when she lies on the floor and does her deep breathing.

Will is apparently the unofficial assistant manager of Casscade and Harry thinks there’s definitely some conflict somewhere, considering how he’s Allie’s maybe-ex-maybe-boyfriend and Kelly’s his. He’s unreasonably fucked off with it but doesn’t think he has the right to express it in a healthy manner – just looks away whenever Will speaks. Will has a lot of opinions.

Harry also walks onto his own band’s tour bus to hear them debating about whether they should re-recruit Will and thus render Harry’s role superfluous.

“Harry’s good,” Grizz protests. “And he’s written half of our material.”

“Yeah, but Will’s not a holier than thou asshole who avoids us like twenty four seven.” It’s the most eloquent Harry’s ever heard Clark be, and he’s kind of impressed. And offended. But not surprised.

“Don’t mind me,” Harry chirps cheerfully, once his presence is recognised. Clark flushes a deep red and even Grizz looks ashamed. Luke avoids his eye, but Jason just stares across the bus.

“It’s kind of true,” Jason points out bluntly.

“Very true,” Clark protests.

“We’re not replacing Harry,” Grizz’s voice is tired, weary, but final. He presses a hand to Harry’s shoulder as he passes. “He is an asshole, but he’s an asshole who’s not bad at writing and is making us all rich.”

“Why thank you,” Harry tries not to think too much about the hand on his shoulder, how he wants to lean into the touch – any touch, actually (sometimes he feels as though he’s in some expanse of desert and no one can be bothered to cross to see him). “Although I would think that Clark would want to be a little more careful, considering bass players are distinctly dime a dozen. This band only needs me and Grizz.”

Grizz sighs and Clark scowls and Harry leaves with a smirk and the sweatshirt he’d come in to retrieve.

Kelly corners him about it later, just as the support band strikes up and Allie Pressman slides from her chair to the floor to start her breathing exercises. Harry finds himself syncing up with her steady, gusting breaths, and Kelly sitting in front of him with concern on her face is really fucking with his vibe.

“They didn’t mean it, Harry. It was just locker talk.”

Harry flicks a hand at her. “They meant it.” Kelly opens her mouth to disagree. “We both know they meant it. Don’t worry, I know my job’s pretty secure. I’m definitely the prettiest. And the second best writer.”

Allie gusts out something that could be a laugh or a chuckle and he’s tempted to kick her.

“Maybe if you hung out with them – don’t look at me like that – just give them a chance. This tour is like six months long. You could at least try.”

“Kelly,” Harry looks into his tumbler of whiskey and the rapidly melting ice cube. “As soon as I turned up in a Masserati and offered to fund the first album, they hated me. Me being an asshole is just secondary.”

Kelly sighs and steps over Allie on her way out. She does pause by the door, looks at the ornate silver watch on her wrist that was an heirloom from her grandmother. “You’re on in thirty, Allie.”

Allie lifts one hand in acknowledgement and then the door shuts gently behind Kelly.

Allie says, “it’s much more fun if your entire band doesn’t loathe your existence.”

Harry says, “well, why don’t you fuck off and have fun with your band in your assigned dressing room? Go on.”

Allie doesn’t move. Harry doesn’t make her. He just shuts his eyes and tilts his head back and finds himself following along with all her pre-performance rituals.

Harry knows the tell tale signs that he’s spiralling. Hiding tiny packets of pills in between the toe and the laces of his Nikes is definitely one of them. The fact that Kelly is basically an escort if he wants to actually go around the city is another. Tour gives him a fucked-up sleep schedule – by the time he comes off stage just before midnight he’s hyped up on adrenaline and whiskey and maybe one or two other substances. It takes hours before he can crash. He knows the rest of the band go for drinks and a debrief before they crash out on the tour bus. Grizz invites him along diligently every so often, but he never goes. Instead Harry hits bars or clubs or empty hotel rooms and ignores his phone ringing. He wakes up at two; sometimes he has radio interviews or something else at three.

Sometimes Grizz tries to corner him, muttering about their second album. They’re contracted for two further albums, considering their debut has sent them sky-rocketing into some half-fame. Enough to sell out the middling sized venues, but not enough that they require anything more than a baseball cap pulled low and a pair of sunglasses to avoid detection.

He wakes up everyday with gritty eyes, a dull headache and an increasingly dry mouth. Something is suppressing his appetite, so his jeans are growing looser, lower on his hips.

Maybe he’s self-centred (he’s definitely self-centred) but he kind of thinks maybe it’s him Kelly wants to talk about when she slams into soundcheck, “Harry, I need a word,” in an extremely urgent tone – urgent enough for him to actually look at her with interest.

She says, “now, please,” in an even louder tone. Presses a hand to her forehead. He sighs, shrugs off the strap of his guitar and places it back in the stand eight feet away, then follows her offstage.

Kelly shuts the door to the backstage area behind them, spins onto him. Harry slouches and looks into the middle distance because this is not an uncommon occurrence.

Instead, Kelly says, “Allie’s lost her shit. Says she can’t play tonight,” which is so far off from his predictions, from his expectation, that all he can do is turn his head towards her blink slowly.

“Allie?”

“Allie Pressman. That girl who spends at least an hour in your dressing room every day.”

“You spend longer than that in my dressing room.”

“It’s not an accusation, Harry.” She touches her tongue to her top teeth and it’s rare to see Kelly Aldritch out of control. Harry thinks he likes it.

He’s definitely intrigued by this scenario. “You should probably ask Will. They’re either still fucking or have fucked.” At that, Kelly bites her lip and turns a pretty shade of pink.

“She threw a mug at Will.” Harry laughs at that and Kelly frowns.

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“I don’t know – I thought maybe you could just go distract her by being annoying or something. Do what you usually do.”

“Am I allowed more alcohol?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Harry,” her voice is quiet. “This is serious. She’s a wreck.”

Harry half wants to say _I’m a wreck, but no one gives a shit about that_. He thinks she might say _nothing new there_.

It ends up with Allie and Harry, a guitar and a violin.

Allie Pressman has wedged a chair under the door but he’s lucky enough that he doesn’t care about scuffing walls or damaging drywall. So he just slams his shoulder against the door until something gives and he can slide through the gap.

Kelly stands in the hall and watches, so he tells her politely, “this is the part where you fuck off and give us some privacy.”

She throws her hands in the air but most importantly, she walks away.

Allie’s holed up in the dressing room that has just his name on the door. When he pushes his way through the extremely small gap he calls, “don’t bother getting dressed, it’s just me.”

She’s fully dressed in an extremely baggy sweater that gapes at the neck. The sleeves cover her hands. She’s got sweats on and her legs all curled up beneath her. She’s staring into the big mirror that is on every single dressing room wall and plucking at the leg of her sweatpants above her knee.

He says, “you’re contractually obliged to play so I wouldn’t bother trying not to. Also, you’re not big enough to be able to throw a shit fit and not have it tarnish your reputation from here on in.”

“They can say I’m sick. Coming thick and fast out of both ends. That’ll pass.”

“Kelly knows the truth. Also, Kelly has to report back to management and she’s not a good liar. The exact opposite, in fact. Plus she’s got the memory of an elephant.”

Allie’s not turned away from the mirror. Keeps plucking at her sweatpants.

“It’s not the only thing she has in common with elephants, as it happens.” Allie’s gaze does move to him, then. Eyes meeting his in the mirror. “She definitely knows how to handle a trunk.”

The exhale through her nose isn’t quite a laugh. Her gaze returns to her knee.

“It’s Cassandra’s birthday today.” Her voice is quiet; hoarse.

“Did you forget to buy her a present?” The words trip out before he can really stop them. There’s an extremely pregnant pause, then Allie Pressman grins fleetingly.

“Fuck you, Bingham.”

“Already ticked off your to-do list, Pressman.”

“She thought you were such an asshole,” Allie’s gaze is unfocussed, like she’s reliving some memory. “But she also said you were one of the best performers she’s ever seen live. I think it really pissed her off. She so wanted to hate you, but your songs made her cry.”

“You don’t have to hang around with me to piss her off,” Harry points out. “She’s dead.”

Allie sighs. Loops an arm around her knee and pulls it close so she can rest her chin on it. She looks young and tamed and sad. Harry’s tempted to press his nose into her neck and breathe her in; tempted to wind a hand into her hair and say _shhh_ gently into the tangled hair behind her left ear.

“Everyone else knew her. They don’t know who I am without her – it’s making it harder to figure out who I am without her.”

“You’re Allie fucking Pressman.”

“I seldom use my middle name.”

Harry laughs then. Allie looks like she’s trying to fight to keep herself from following suit.

She says, “fuck you, this is a sad day. My parents rang me to shout about how I’m disrespecting her memory.”

“You’re literally in a band named after her singing songs you wrote in her honour. I think you’re good on the moral front.”

She squeezes her eyes tight shut. There’s a guitar in the corner of the room and when Harry sticks his head out Kelly’s in the corridor, as he predicted.

“Kelly.” She turns her head from where she’s sitting, scribbling in some book. She snaps it shut. “Fetch me a violin.”

“Please.”

“Kelly.”

“Bingham.”

“Fetch me a violin.” Kelly Aldritch stares at him, one eyebrow arched. “ _Please._ ”

Harry Bingham gives Allie Pressman his whole hydroflask of top-shelf whiskey, with extra ice. Then he strides on for their first song by her side with Casscade behind him. Allie Pressman stares at him as she lifts the violin to her shoulder and slots her chin right onto the rest. He locks eyes right back, adjusting the microphone stand with practiced ease.

Elle taps her sticks together. The crowd is wild – the front recognise Harry, and then it ripples outwards.

The drums start; then the bass. Then the slow, ethereal notes of the violin. Bean finds the gaps for the gentle, tinkering notes of the keyboard. Allie closes her eyes when she plays. When the opening solo is complete, her eyelids slam open. She seeks out Harry.

He nods. She nods. Together, they step up to their respective microphones.

He’s not going to lie. They sound good together.

**Author's Note:**

> there may be more of this but i am Undecided 
> 
> title are lyrics from Angel Of Small Death And The Codeine Scene by Hozier
> 
> darling, dearest, dead is a quote by lemony snicket


End file.
